An Inverted Recollection
by Vaeyana
Summary: They say he was the Devil's child, evil incarnate. Yet I remember a man with a vision, who had the dedication and persistence to see it through. This is his influence. This is his legacy. Such is the power and beauty of the man.


**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

><p>They say he was the Devil's child—evil incarnate. Yet I remember a man with a vision, who had the dedication and persistence to see it through. They say he was brutal, unforgiving and insane—yet I remember a man who quietly wept after his devoted owl was hit by a stray hex. I feel, cynically enough, that my story, written for self closure, if nothing else, will never be accepted. It will be pushed aside as the confused ramblings of an old woman. Such arrogance and close-mindedness to one's own view are inescapable features of humanity, faults which have proved to be man's downfall and destruction countless times over the centuries. What could my tale do to change this? It led to his. He was, after all, only human.<p>

When I first met him, I was young—full of the naivety and innocence of youth. I remember seeing him, dark and handsome, standing tall and proud, surrounded by his followers. Yet, even then, I remember being struck by his youth. He was hardly older than me. This was the man who would lead us to greatness? But then I saw how the older, more experienced men flocked around him, jostling for his attention like courtiers to a King, my own father amongst them and I knew that there was much more to this man than first reached the eye.

I remember our first, true meeting. I had fallen and he, rounding the corner of the garden where I lay, had helped me to my feet. For once, he was alone. I stammered my thanks, fixing my eyes bashfully at his shoes, unable to bring myself, in my embarrassment, to look at him directly. Imagine my surprise when he took my chin in gentle hands and raised my face to look at him, brushing my long curtain of dark hair behind my ears, making it impossible for me to hide behind it. He spoke, and though I cannot now remember his words, I can still see his eyes, as vividly as if the encounter had occurred not five minutes past—those eyes that people now describe as being alight with madness—but that I remember as being very dark and sparkling with good humour. It was not until years later that the pale gleam of fanaticism took hold.

It was at this meeting that I fully beheld his power and potential. He was charismatic, persuasive and commanding. He was passionate. To me, he was wonderful. Somewhere along the way, this awe and respect I held for a man only a few years my elder turned to love. I like to think this love was reciprocated. I think it was. I, who was at his side for all his reign. I knew him.

People are frightened of power and those possessing it. Seeing his actions, while not understanding his beliefs, they built up an image of him that could only be false, as all which stem from fear, prejudice and ignorance are. They said he was a power-hungry tyrant, the epitome of inhumanity and oppression. They justified themselves by circulating tales of those who died or lost their homes due to his regime. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps I am just as blinded as I believe them to be. However, when I think of him, I see the man behind the madness, the man he showed to me—maybe only to me.

He did so many terrible, yet great things. Where did he go wrong? Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that he was only human. With success, comes confidence; with confidence comes arrogance and with arrogance—recklessness. Recklessness can only result in mistakes. This inevitable cycle, which has plagued history's great leaders for aeons, is the curse of greatness. Pride cometh before a fall, they say.

What a fall it was.

They say he was evil—that he shouldn't be allowed to live to continue his so-called scourge of the earth. So he, the man who was once so great, so _promising_ as a youth, was killed, in a rain of fire and curses and _justice_, by a new order of wizards and witches, some of them as young as he, when he first began. I can only hope that they are spared the fate of other great people before them, spared the endless, ruinous cycle.

I like to think he died with dignity—but can there be any dignity in death? As I write, I can feel death growing steadily closer on its inexorable path. Though I know I will die more peacefully than he, I still feel a measure of humiliation at the thought of being found and buried in my current state. My old, rheumy eyes can now only vaguely see the page, whereas once they were of the clearest, deepest blue. My dark hair has faded to white and my smooth, pale skin is now wrinkled and age-worn. I suppose we all have our faults, and it seems my vanity affects me still, though I have little to be vain about. Old age has robbed me of the dignity my looks afforded me. I would far prefer to be remembered as the beautiful and vivacious girl I was. Though I know we all change and fall from our prime, I find little comfort in this. I, whose beauty and grace was famed across an empire, am now relegated to this broken and decrepit husk.

Pride cometh before a fall after all.

So now, I sit, alone and tired, but desperately trying to give the man who was once so great and who brought this empire so much, a final chance at being at the very least understood, as I know redemption is too much to hope for. Maybe, just maybe, I write too in a last attempt to justify myself, just a little and atone somewhat for my sins. Perhaps I am entirely wrong, and he was indeed a monster.

They celebrate now, their laughter and fireworks colliding high in the sky in a cacophony of euphoria and exhilaration and _relief. _They celebrate that he is finally gone, that after so many years of being under the threat of his rule, they have finally destroyed him and his legacy. Yet they haven't—not completely. Though his body lies rotting in an unmarked, untended and forgotten grave, as do his followers—as mine will soon—the memory of who he was—whether as the tyrant or the man—remains. In history books, no matter how he is represented, his work will live on, influencing and shaping the future world in some way.

_This _is his influence. _This _is his legacy.

Such is the power and beauty of the man.

* * *

><p><strong>AN **This is an extended and improved version of one of my previous stories. I would love to hear your feedback, so please leave a review! It only takes a few moments, I swear!

- Vae x


End file.
